


Quite Like Him

by Frankenskr



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: First kiss maybe, Lamp - Freeform, M/M, Out of Character, definitely out of character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-06
Updated: 2020-12-06
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:34:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 832
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27911572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frankenskr/pseuds/Frankenskr
Summary: Just Charles on track remembering their first kiss maybeThanks to Daniel and thanks to alcohol
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen
Comments: 3
Kudos: 25





	Quite Like Him

Charles Leclerc could see the clouds accumulating when he hit the apex of turn11. For a very brief moment between brake and throttle he thought the nearest cloud looked like the lamp in Max Verstappen’s living room — he was there once and once only, joining a kind of official party initiated by Daniel, who himself gave Charles an strong and firm invitation with his unrejectable smile. Some of the drivers might dislike people like Daniel but Charles was never one of them. He actually was not able to refuse any person with a genuine adoring attitude towards himself.

And Daniel did have a genuine adoring attitude towards him.

Even though the social interacting base line of this Ricciardo was already higher than quite a lot of human beings in this planet, let alone in the paddock.

The car before Charles was a Redbull. Alex’s Redbull. Which meant, for the most of time, Verstappen was far away. Charles’ car struggled so much in the high speed corners that, after each straights, he could nearly physically feel the stretching force between him and the proceeding car when the hardly-shortened separation was prolonged again and again, shrink by shrink, as if the force was effecting not on his car but his nerve.

It was a debatable question whether Charles had a nerve strong enough or not. For he himself was one of the few drivers having the ability to defense Max Verstappen on track, even in a slower car. But there was facts in Baku and etc. Charles sometimes felt he would never let go and would be always afraid of letting go because that should cause him things too unbearable to lose. Let go of what? Of what he truly was, maybe.

Charles Leclerc didn’t have a characteristic suitable for driving. He just loved it too much, enjoyed it too much, and self-recognized as a driver too much.

“And yet you’re here.”

Max was drunk enough to say those words that day sitting beside the lamp. Charles knew that. It was the closest to a true approval ever let out, of anyone, from Max Verstappen. In his childhood, approval of other drivers was simply unacceptable. He was neither liked nor allowed by his father to acknowledge not being the best. He was the best most of the time. But if he was to beat others and to improve, he undoubtedly would be beaten as well. There was winning and there was losing. It was mathematic. No one beats mathematic. Charles Leclerc was sitting opposite to him, facing the lamp, deliberately not facing him, when he finally gave that approval long overdue. With the alcohol in his blood to calm him down, to paralyze his unnerving mind, Max saw very clear that Charles turned happy.

More precisely, he flipped to plain happiness the moment Max said “and yet you’re here”.

It was not a significant smiles or something. It was the relaxation of his body, the small curve emerged from the corner of his mouth, the sigh, the eyes, the expression of unreserved mutual understanding. Max was hit, silently. And he nodded, then tried to stand up.

“Oh, Max.” Charles stopped him with a light laugh.

Max stopped.

“Thank you.” Charles said.

He looked straight into Max’s eyes, then lowered his sight a little. His eyelashes shined golden brown under the warm light of the lamp. Max suddenly remembered how this man looked like when he was a boy, when he was 13 or 14 years old. He never changed. Neither was him.

“No.” Max shook his head, with a light-heavy-complicated mood, “Don’t fucking thank me for telling the truth.”

“Then I have to say you’re too stingy on telling truth.”

“And that is a truth.”

They both laughed, not caring disturbing others. They were all too drunk, anyway. It was Charles who leaned closer. A sudden action out of nowhere. A sudden action which Max had been previewing in his mind unconsciously for minutes. Except no. Not minutes. For hours.

Years.

They kissed. Max let out a satisfying groan from his chest like he was devouring something he’d been lingering for so long. Charles was obedient and aggressive at the same time. Can someone be both obedient and aggressive? That sounded absurd and there Charles was.

“Do you want me?” Max broke the kiss and simply asked.

Charles’ eyes widened for astonishment. Then a realisation drew in and quickly flickered into a sly humour.

“I do want you.” Charles said slowly, “I want you on track all the time. But you probably already knew it.”

“I do.”

“Next time I will eat you alive, Max, using a cross line, before I seal your way out of the apex totally and leave you no chance to re-overtake me.”

“And you will be penalized for dangerous driving.”

“Oh, fuck off.” Charles shortened the distance between them again, “Driving is dangerous.”

“To this I concur.”

Max loved the accent when Charles called his name. So did Charles.


End file.
